


Calligraphic

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>North and York get tattoos to commemorate their bromance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calligraphic

“You’re my best friend, dude,” York slurred, leaning into North a little too hard, so hard that North had to hold onto the bar to keep the both of them upright. “Bro. I really, dude. Best bro. So much.”

North pressed back. He’d had a lot to drink, and he wasn’t going to pass up affectionate York. The leader-board was making everyone a little rough around the edges, and the whole environment ship-side had just been negative lately.

“Really?”  And he hadn’t known that York considered North his _best_ friend. Wash, surely, or Carolina?

“Yeah,” York mumbled into his shoulder, hair brushing North’s jaw “You’re really great, bro. You’re a good guy. Hands up.”

North stared at his hands in abject confusion. “Uhh… York?”

“Down. Hands down,” York hummed. “Best bro, hands down.”

* * *

 

 

North’s head hurts. And his lower back itches.

“Ugh,” he moans, directly into a pillow that is not his pillow; he can tell, this pillowcase is like sandpaper and was clearly not designed for people with skin problems. This is a regulation pillow. So he’s somewhere on base, at least. Or in a hospital, but other than his hangover it doesn’t feel like anything’s wrong–

That _itching_ , though.

North reaches back to scratch, and– oh god. There’s gauze. He’s either done something incredibly stupid or he’s lost a kidney to the black market. From what he can remember of his night, though, it’s looking like the former.

North cracks an eye open warily. It’s not too bright. And he’s in his room, he’s just not in his bunk. _His_ bunk is over there, eight feet away with York snoring on top of it, still in his civvies.

Which means North is in York’s bunk. He sits up. Glances at the bedside table. Yep, four empty coffee mugs and a magazine cut-out of some topless model in camo leggings. She stares at North with big puppy eyes and pouty lip. North stares back.

“What did you see?” he whispers at her. No reply, of course. North finds his feet and stumbles into the bathroom with a mounting sense of dread. He stands in front of the mirror and twists his head around.

It’s not _exactly_ his lower back. More like the top of his ass. If it’s as big as the patch of gauze, it will just creep up over his belt when wearing jeans.

No use putting it off. North gets a hold of the tape and pulls.

* * *

 

“Not cool,” York protested, when North bundled the both of them out onto the street. “Didn’t do nothin’”.

“I know,” North assured him, and patted him on the shoulder, a bit shakily. Everything about both of them was a bit shaky, at the moment. “But they’re closing, now.”

“Kicked us out, dude,” York insisted, and North tugged him down the sidewalk bit by bit, taking breaks to lean on the shopfronts and light poles until he could get his feet under them. “Not cool. Not kosher. I’m drunk.”

“You’re very drunk,” North agreed. “I am also very drunk. We should call–” He paused. Who could he call? Everyone else had left early, but York had insisted they stay for another round. And another.

“Nah,” York elbowed him lightly, and it put North off balance; he lurched sideways and managed to catch himself on the wall, pulling York after him. “We should. Somethin’ else. Celebrate. Shore leave.”

“Shore leave,” North repeated.

* * *

 

 

It takes North a minute. He looks. Then he splashes some cold water on his face, and turns the light in the bathroom off and on, all the things you do to make sure you aren’t dreaming, and then he looks again.

It’s still there.

York’s name. On his ass.

North does the only thing he can think to do. He calls his sister.

“Oh my _god_ ,” South breathes, and then makes her terrible, snide little dog laugh, the same one she’s had since they were twelve. “Oh mother of fuck, is it my birthday? It’s _Christmas_. Oh my god, send me a picture.”

“No,” North says, over the barking. “No, I am not sending you a picture.”

“You know what this means, right?” South gasps. “You have to get married now. It would be weird otherwise.”

“I could get ‘New’ on top of it,” North says, mind racing. He can fix this. He can. “It’s a place? I could go there, I bet I’d like it. Also there’s a musical I think, I could become a musical fan.”

He _hates_ musicals. And calling South was a mistake.

“Fucking–” South actually sounds like she’s crying, between the laughter and the gasping “And leave your _Best BroFriend_ out in the cold? You wouldn’t, what’s he gonna do? Get the rest of the compass? Oh my _god_.”

“Unorthodox. Northward,” North mumbles. “North by Northwest? He likes Cary Grant. He wants to _be_ Cary Grant, I think he’s got the better deal, here.” York has so many options. It really is unfair.

“Married,” South repeats, completely unmoved by how unfair North’s situation is. “Hitched. Actually I’m pretty sure shore leave tattoos are legally binding in and of themselves, better get that checked out with HR, you guys probably need to file jointly from now on–”

This is the opposite of helpful. “I’m hanging up,” North decides. “On you. Right now.”

“Wait!” South cries, and it’s so loud North has to hold the phone out a foot away from his ear, wincing “you didn’t even tell me what font it’s in, oh my god, is it calligraphy? Tell me it’s callig-–”

 North hangs up on her.

* * *

 

 

York had never gotten a tattoo before. He kept repeating that, to everyone in the parlor who would listen.

“I’m not sure,” the girl said, sucking her lower lip and worrying at one of numerous piercings “Usually we don’t-–”

“Brothers in arms,” York pointed at her, or at least in her general direction. “Could die tomorrow. Have some, some-–” he looked over at North, made that 'please help me words’ face.

“Patriotic spirit?” North tried.

The girl sucked air through her teeth. She gestured at the sign on the ceiling. It read: _What About When You Break Up?_

“Bro friends,” York insisted, very seriously “do not break up. Ever.”

“You can read that?” North asked, incredulous. York was very, very drunk, as far as he could tell. Way beyond reading signs at a distance.

“Read what?” York asked, looking puzzled. “I like reading. Sometimes. And you, I like you, dude.” He turned back to the girl. “I like him a lot. He’s a _great guy_.”

“We _are_ leaving tomorrow morning,” North offered. “So we won’t be suing anyone.”

“Christ,” she said. “ _Fine_.”

* * *

 

 

York’s sitting up in North’s bunk when North comes back out, scratching at his ass. North stops a foot or so outside the doorway, staring at him. He should probably be angry, but York looks– pathetic, really, hair everywhere and that sad puppy face.

“Don’t hit me,” he begs North, eyes pleading.

North just sighs, flops down next to him on the mattress. “Apparently we’re married, now.”

“In some cultures,” York says automatically, the way he does when Delta has beamed an encyclopedia entry directly into his language processing centers. “Although the normalizing influence of modern universalist monoculture has significantly changed even the most isolated tradit–”

North reaches up, also automatically, to cover York’s mouth. Waits. Removes his hand.

“Thanks,” York says.

“You’re welcome.” North heaves a sigh. Scratches.

“My head hurts,” York complains, rolls over so they’re both lying on their stomachs, staring off the end of the bed at the floor.

“We’re dehydrated,” North reminds him. He’ll get up and get them some water, in a minute. Or make York get it.

“You held my hand,” York mumbles, into his folded arms.

North bumps their shoulders together. “You were being a wimp.”

“I was _not_ ,” York insists, but bumps back. “It was just an emotional time for me, man.” He pauses. Scratches. “And I don’t, uh. Don’t like needles, it turns out.”

“Uh huh,” North replies, remembering York’s death grip. Really incredible for someone so completely smashed. “So.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , because I now have your name _irrevocably attached to my body_ ,” North says, drily “I would like it very much if you would bring me a glass of water.”

York frowns. “No way, man. I got yours. At most I get you half a glass, and you get me half.”

“This was not my idea,” North reminds him, a little peeved. He itches.

York just stares.

“What?”

“Dude.” York shifts onto his side, claps a hand over North’s shoulder, very seriously. “It was _entirely_ your idea.”

“No,” North whispers. No. York’s just fucking with him.

“Yes,” York replies. “Cross my heart and hope to die, bro.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” North groans, and buries his face in the sheets. York pats him on the back.

“I’ll just go. Get us some water.” North feels the bed shift as York climbs off.

“Thank you,” North mumbles, in utter despair.

“Least I can do,” York calls from the bathroom over the hiss of the sink. “Seeing as we’re married now, and all.” The water cuts off. “Speaking of which, you got any feelings about ceremonies? You were full of ideas last night, dude. Very artistic.” He pads back over to the bunk, holding out the full glass.

“Fuck off,” North tells him, and takes the glass, holding it up to his forehead and enjoying the cold. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”

“Nope,” York says, popping the 'p’. He sits down on the bed behind North and sips at his own water. “So. Since we’re bro-married–”

“We’re not married.”

“ _Since_ we’re _bro-married_ ,” York jostles him with a socked foot “Can I get a bj, or what?”

“Get out,” North groans. And so it begins. His penance.

“Hey, relax,” the foot pokes at him, toes wriggling. North bats at it blindly. “It just stands for brojob. Totally within the bounds of a broship. Not crossing a single line.”

“Go get me breakfast,” North says, with a sigh. “And I will consider it.”

“Yesssss!” A pause. “I just did an arm-pump. Just so you know. I’m excited.”

“I want a bro-divorce,” North decides.

York slaps him on the ass, and by the time North’s recovered enough from the shock to get up, York’s already off the bed and out into the hall, whooping.

North scratches, and decides that killing him can wait until after pancakes.


End file.
